so she can push on with the typing in time for the post.
Not friends, not really, he’s thinking. Seb sent him a text the next evening. ‘Sorry, squash another time,’ it read. He hasn’t been in touch since.
Dan looks at his watch; the second hand jerks, much like his heart. He put on his bright confident voice when he phoned Geri back. ‘A baby acrobat, eh? Sounds like my boy! Everything is fine, Geri. No need for you to worry.’
But still, better safe than sorry, and the midwife said to call any time.
He picks up his mobile and scrolls down the contacts. The midwife’s voicemail message kicks in, so he leaves a reply. ‘Hi, it’s Dan Maloney from Chorlton Green. Everything’s fine with Geri and the baby, but could you pop by this evening? Just tell Geri you were passing? A little reassurance would be great.’
Dan washes the dinner dishes absently, then takes the coffees through to Geri. She’s curled on the sofa, her eyes on the television screen.
‘Come on, Dan, you’re missing it.’
She turns to him with an amused smile on her face; it’s a comedy they both like, and he sinks down next to her, aware of sounds and seeing colours, but his ears tuned for the doorbell. Trying not to glance at his watch, one programme merges into the next.
The bell finally rings at eight-thirty. A plump midwife bustles in with the cold February wind. She’s called Bernadette; she’s visited before. Looking at Geri, she crinkles her freckled nose. ‘I could say I was just passing, but that wouldn’t wash, would it?’
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